Excerpt: Molly let him clean a few of the rooms, but as he grew more lank and exhausted, she would hiss at him and shepherd him back to his bedroom, where he had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

It wasn't that Nightingale intended to stay up most nights -- in fact, when he was in the trenches, tasting the blood and the dirt, he dreamed about the relatively soft and warm beds of the Folly, and what it would feel like to again sleep deeply every night and wake in the morning refreshed instead of wary.

But his victory was as sour as biting down on a boil, and whenever he shut his eyes, he saw their faces, the ones who had died quickly and the others who had lingered, the men he had shared his life force with, all of them stretching their strengths out for the cause, and none of them here.

Molly let him clean a few of the rooms, but as he grew more lank and exhausted, she would hiss at him and shepherd him back to his bedroom, where he had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company -- so was it any wonder he couldn't sleep, perchance to dream?